back.
“Kupferstein! Hamelot! This air hostess . . . Did she have any family?”
Rachel bites her bottom lip like a schoolgirl who has just been busted.
“Shit! The parents—I’d completely forgotten about them. According to the concierge she had fallen out with them for some unknown reason. I’ll ask Gomes to track them down and I’ll make contact with them when we get back from the kebab shop.”
Jean’s head reappears in the doorway.
“Oh, boss. I asked our colleagues in the eighteenth to lead the investigation into the phone booth in front of 37, rue Ordener, where the call reporting the murder was made from. No response yet. Could you keep after them? They must have groomed a few useful friends among all the dealers and junkies who hang out around there. It would be nice if they gave us a hand on this one . . . We’ll return the favor, of course!”
A violet Post-it on Jean’s red desk lamp reads: CALL LÉNA MOREL.
“Hi, Léna?”
“Ah, Jean! Listen, I get off tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. I’ve gotten us a meeting in Châtelet—the Sarah Bernhardt café—at 6:30 p.m. with Dr. Germain. He’d prefer me to be there too. If you’re free why don’t we go for a Vietnamese at the New Locomotive afterward? I’ll have my car.”
“Great, thanks Léna! I’ve got to make a move—see you tomorrow.”
Rachel is briefing Gomes, a young twenty-five-year-old officer with light brown hair held up with gel. Studious and concentrated, he is religiously noting down every single word that passes his colleague’s full lips. Find Laura Vignola’s parents. Born Niort, February 25, 1978. Under no circumstances should you call them—just try to find out as much about them as possible. Apparently Laura and her parents had a frosty relationship . . . Could he make a start on working out why? She thanks him with a weary smile before turning on her heel and joining Jean in the corridor.
“Well?”
“Well the psychiatrist has agreed to see me. I would rather go alone, but he’s asked for Léna to be there too . . . I’m having dinner with her afterward,” he adds, a touch flustered.
“Léna! Well, if it’s not broken . . .”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know! We go for dinner once a month. She’s the only childhood friend I have left. You grew up in Paris. You wouldn’t have a clue what it feels like, losing your roots.”
Rachel smiles without saying a word. For them, seduction is a game that never plays out. One night, after a particularly tense operation in a Cameroonian squat, the two of them had gone on a bar-crawl along rue Oberkampf. They ended up in Cythéa at 3:00 a.m. After dancing for half an hour to remixed Bollywood tunes, the stress had eased completely. Slumped in front of their Abbaye beers, their conversation became flirty. Jean had looked Rachel straight in the eye, not saying a word. She turned the tables.
“What are you thinking about right now?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“About this . . .”
He leaned in and kissed her. Rachel responded to his lips with an energy that surprised and terrified him. A fear of not being up to it; of not wanting it enough. A familiar old defense mechanism. In general, girls didn’t pick up on it. Pretended not to, anyway. Once you’ve kissed, you’ve got to push on through, right? Rachel had pulled back, puzzled.
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
“If only I knew.”
The spell was broken. A cloud descended over Jean. Rachel defused the situation.
“One: we work together . . . it would be a damn shambles, a complete nightmare. Two: it was worth a try, otherwise we’d always have it lurking at the back of our minds. Three: stop sulking like that or I’ll leave immediately, which would be a bummer for me as my glass is empty and it’s your round!”
Jean laughed. Not very heartily, but he did laugh.
“You know, it’s nothing to do with you. I enjoy your company, it’s fun
“Kupferstein! Hamelot! This air hostess . . . Did she have any family?”
Rachel bites her bottom lip like a schoolgirl who has just been busted.
“Shit! The parents—I’d completely forgotten about them. According to the concierge she had fallen out with them for some unknown reason. I’ll ask Gomes to track them down and I’ll make contact with them when we get back from the kebab shop.”
Jean’s head reappears in the doorway.
“Oh, boss. I asked our colleagues in the eighteenth to lead the investigation into the phone booth in front of 37, rue Ordener, where the call reporting the murder was made from. No response yet. Could you keep after them? They must have groomed a few useful friends among all the dealers and junkies who hang out around there. It would be nice if they gave us a hand on this one . . . We’ll return the favor, of course!”
A violet Post-it on Jean’s red desk lamp reads: CALL LÉNA MOREL.
“Hi, Léna?”
“Ah, Jean! Listen, I get off tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. I’ve gotten us a meeting in Châtelet—the Sarah Bernhardt café—at 6:30 p.m. with Dr. Germain. He’d prefer me to be there too. If you’re free why don’t we go for a Vietnamese at the New Locomotive afterward? I’ll have my car.”
“Great, thanks Léna! I’ve got to make a move—see you tomorrow.”
Rachel is briefing Gomes, a young twenty-five-year-old officer with light brown hair held up with gel. Studious and concentrated, he is religiously noting down every single word that passes his colleague’s full lips. Find Laura Vignola’s parents. Born Niort, February 25, 1978. Under no circumstances should you call them—just try to find out as much about them as possible. Apparently Laura and her parents had a frosty relationship . . . Could he make a start on working out why? She thanks him with a weary smile before turning on her heel and joining Jean in the corridor.
“Well?”
“Well the psychiatrist has agreed to see me. I would rather go alone, but he’s asked for Léna to be there too . . . I’m having dinner with her afterward,” he adds, a touch flustered.
“Léna! Well, if it’s not broken . . .”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know! We go for dinner once a month. She’s the only childhood friend I have left. You grew up in Paris. You wouldn’t have a clue what it feels like, losing your roots.”
Rachel smiles without saying a word. For them, seduction is a game that never plays out. One night, after a particularly tense operation in a Cameroonian squat, the two of them had gone on a bar-crawl along rue Oberkampf. They ended up in Cythéa at 3:00 a.m. After dancing for half an hour to remixed Bollywood tunes, the stress had eased completely. Slumped in front of their Abbaye beers, their conversation became flirty. Jean had looked Rachel straight in the eye, not saying a word. She turned the tables.
“What are you thinking about right now?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“About this . . .”
He leaned in and kissed her. Rachel responded to his lips with an energy that surprised and terrified him. A fear of not being up to it; of not wanting it enough. A familiar old defense mechanism. In general, girls didn’t pick up on it. Pretended not to, anyway. Once you’ve kissed, you’ve got to push on through, right? Rachel had pulled back, puzzled.
“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked.
“If only I knew.”
The spell was broken. A cloud descended over Jean. Rachel defused the situation.
“One: we work together . . . it would be a damn shambles, a complete nightmare. Two: it was worth a try, otherwise we’d always have it lurking at the back of our minds. Three: stop sulking like that or I’ll leave immediately, which would be a bummer for me as my glass is empty and it’s your round!”
Jean laughed. Not very heartily, but he did laugh.
“You know, it’s nothing to do with you. I enjoy your company, it’s fun
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